by Rich Allen
Zoe began giggling. It was a childlike, infectious giggle that made Jack smile a lot.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I love a good sing along.”
“Please, don’t apologize. I bet you’re a real whiz at Karaoke.”
Zoe raised an eyebrow. “It has been known. So, you’re a radio host. How cool. Where do you do your show? In London?”
Truth or lie? Quick decision needed Jack … “Actually, I don’t do the radio anymore, but yeah; I used to do a show on a London station.”
Zoe nodded her head. She looked a little disappointed, or was that just Jack’s imagination.
“So what’s your thing now?” she asked.
Jack felt a warm sensation in his cheeks. “I do some writing,” he said, “but I haven’t had anything published yet.”
Zoe crossed her legs. “Cool. What kind of stuff do you write?”
“Children’s Fantasy.”
“Hey that’s great. I love the Harry Potter books. Is it like that?”
Jack smiled. “Not really. I’ve gone a bit lighter with the magic.”
“So you’ve sent it off to publishers then?”
“Yeah.” Jack sighed. “And agents, but no luck so far.”
“Keep on pushing it. You’ll get it published eventually, I’m sure.”
Jack knew that she was just being nice, but it felt good to hear those words come out of her mouth. “Stranger things have happened,” he said. “So, what do you do? Are you a student?”
Zoe chuckled. “I used to be. I’m a trainee chiropodist.”
Jack winced.
“Yeah, feet. I see all kinds of weird looking ones.”
“What made you want to do that?” Jack’s tone had sounded more incredulous than he’d intended.
“Someone’s gotta do it, Jack. No, seriously, my dad was one, so I’m just following in his footsteps, if you pardon the pun.”
“You’re pardoned. So you do that back in Ventura?”
“I’m doing my training in L.A,” she explained. “I’ve got a couple of months left to do when I get back, then hopefully, I’ll get my qualifications and get a job. Gotta pay for all those college fees. So what brings you to Rome? Are you travelling alone?”
Jack pulled the tab on his Coke and took a sip. “Yeah. Got here this morning. Haven’t had a chance to see any sights yet, though.” He decided against asking her if she was travelling solo. It might sound a bit weird.
“Well, the Coliseum and the Roman Forum are just down the road. How long are you planning on staying?” she asked him.
“Not sure yet. How about yourself?”
“I haven’t decided yet, either. I’ve been here two days so far, but still got plenty to see. This place isn’t exactly The Hilton though, is it?”
Jack turned around to check that Nina wasn’t within earshot. “No,” he said, “it’s not.”
“Well, listen, Jack. I should let you get on with whatever you’re up to. I need to get back to my room, anyhow.”
Get back to your room? You were happily reading a book a minute ago. “I was just going to check my email that’s all,” he said. “There’s no need to rush off on my account. Stay and have a drink.”
Zoe looked apologetically into his eyes. “I need a bit of a lie down to be honest. Good luck with the connection. It’s sometimes a bit iffy here, but you might be able to piggy back the café next door. Their password is ‘Café Prima.’ All one word. I used it earlier, and it worked fine.” She grabbed her book and stood up.
Jack also stood. He was maybe three inches taller than her. The perfect height difference. “Listen,” he said, “as I’m new in town, why don’t you let me buy you a drink later? I was thinking of taking a walk down to the Coliseum.” That probably sounded a bit lame. He hadn’t even checked if she was travelling alone. For all he knew, she might have a boyfriend in tow.
The long haired guy with the Budweiser had unplugged himself and Jack sensed that he was ear-wigging. Great, he was about to witness Jack getting the brush off.
Zoe half smiled at Jack. “Well,” she laboured the word as she said it, “I’ll probably be back in here later on. If you’re still around, then yeah, maybe we can go grab a drink some place.”
Get in! “That’s great. I’ll hopefully see you later then,” Jack said.
“Maybe.” She smiled and shot him a low wave of the hand as she disappeared up the corridor.
Jack sat down. She was cute, but coy. He liked that. He glanced across at the long haired guy who’d now re-plugged his earphones. The guy turned to look at Jack then refocused straight ahead, staring into space. Yesterday, Jack had been all set to top himself and now, just one day later, he’d been bitten by the love bug. Was that really possible? He’d been in lust with Nina, but Zoe was totally different. More demure. He powered up his netbook and tried to get a connection on the hostel’s WI-FI but it seemed to be playing silly buggers.
Taking Zoe’s advice, Jack hooked up with the café next door. The home screen popped up and he took a sip of Coke before typing in the address for his email account. The inbox began updating and excitement shot through his veins like high speed fibre optic broadband travelling through a cable. Quint had said that he’d be in touch when Jack got to Rome. Well, Jack had kept his end of the deal.
Inbox: three new messages. He scanned them all and then rescanned. Damn. All spam. He opened up the last message that he’d received from Quint. The one from yesterday afternoon. “I’ll be in touch when you get to Rome.” Jack re read it several times. The sender hadn’t specified how they’d be in touch. Perhaps by email, or maybe in person. How cool would that be, meeting Quint. No, that sounded totally ridiculous. Jack finished off his Coke. He felt frustrated and also a bit vulnerable, like this Quint character was toying with him.
He clicked onto a search engine and typed in: “Free things to do in Rome.” He found a Top Twenty style website. Yep, throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain; see the Spanish Steps, the Coliseum.
He had fifty five euros to subsist on, and he’d offered to buy Zoe a drink later. What was he thinking? He couldn’t afford to take a girl out on the town. She didn’t seem the sort who would expect a guy to pay for her, but even if he was really careful, he’d end up spending the lot. Maybe he should just tell her the truth about being broke. No, he’d grab a sandwich for three or four Euros before meeting up with her. Then, if she wanted a bite to eat, he’d tell her that he wasn’t hungry, but that she should go ahead and eat on her own.
Ah, what was the point? Even if he could fool her for one night - living hand to mouth wasn’t something a sophisticated girl like Zoe would find attractive. Maybe it would be best if he just stayed in his room and didn’t show his face. He could subsist another day if he stayed away from company. He could go for a walk; he had the map. A walk and a four euro sandwich. Quint would be in touch soon, and the next piece of the game, or jigsaw, whatever it was, would fall into place. No, the lure of spending time with Zoe far outweighed any financial rationalizing. He’d wait around until she reappeared. However long that might be.
Jack browsed the web. Mainly radio and media websites. He liked to read the forums and see what nonsense had been posted. He drew the line at ever posting comments. Mostly, the radio forums were filled with ramblings by anoraks: “Hey have you heard the great new show on xxxx FM. The DJ is called xxxx and he sounds great. He’ll be going on to bigger and better things, I’m sure.” This would be a typical posting by the actual DJ in question, under the guise of some anonymous user name. Radio presenters, especially those of limited ability - knew no shame. Narcissistic, misfits. Jack had met enough of them over the years. Genuine talent could mask a multitude of sins, but the most conceited folk Jack had encountered had also been the least talented.
The forums always made him laugh, though. Subject headings like: “What does More Music Variety mean?” Who gave a fig! Jack read another heading: “Are swear words ok in songs?” This brought to mind an incident he�
�d heard on Radio 2 many years ago. Ed Stewpot Stewart had started playing “Don’t Marry Her” by The Beautiful South. Unbeknownst to the hapless Stewpot, there existed two versions of the song. The benign radio edit wasn’t the one he played; instead, Auntie’s airwaves were treated to lyrics containing the lines: “sweaty bollocks,” and “fuck me.”
It may have been a factor in hastening the veteran broadcaster’s exit from The Nation’s Favourite. Still, it could happen to anyone. Not long after Jack had started the job at Spirit FM, he’d taken a request to play “Jilted John” by Jilted John. Now, Jack had been familiar with the lines about Gordon being a moron, but he hadn’t anticipated the words: ‘Slag, tart, slut, bitch and puff,’ which littered the next few verses.
He remembered clumsily fading out the song. One of the downsides, he thought, of broadcasting outside of your own era. He was more comfortable in the eighties and nineties. He’d not received any complaints though, not that he expected any. The audience had been white, middle aged and working class. So long as you stayed away from jokes about animal cruelty and refrained from slagging off Cliff Richard, then you’d struggle to annoy them.
To be fair, the Jilted John song had actually been a hit. The seventies had been responsible for some absolute dross. Jack thought about the callers that would ring up for the Seventies Hit Jukebox. They’d rarely ask for records by the really great acts like T-Rex or Bowie. Instead, they’d request Showaddywaddy or Brotherhood of Man. As much as he detested music snobbery - when it came to rubbish like that, Jack reluctantly acquiesced to his own hypocrisy. He began compiling a Top Ten in his head. Fluff Freeman’s cheesy chart bed played as Fluff himself counted down Jack Holden’s Top Ten Shit Records from the Seventies:
“Ok Baby Boomers. At Ten: Tony Orlando and Dawn with Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree.
At Nine: Bye Bye Baby. Not Arf! It’s The Bay City Rollers!
This week’s Number Eight on the chart: Mary Macgregor’s Torn Between Two Lovers. Sounds painful and it sure is painful to listen to, Mary.
Number Seven: Boy from New York City by Darts. Turn away from the oche lads.
Who’s at Six? It’s Jimmy Osmond and his Long Haired Lover from Liverpool.
Counting down to Five with Dana and All Kinds of Everything. Stick to politics, m’darlin’.
Who’s at Number Four: It’s the man with a monogrammed G on his sweater. Ooh-Wakka-Doo-Wakka-Day, for Gilbert O’Sullivan.
Into the Top Three Shit Records from the Seventies, and it’s Three Steps to Heaven for Showaddywaddy.
OK. Here’s a big Number Two. It’s Ray Stevens with The Streak.
And so, the news you’ve been waiting for: Jack Holden’s least favourite seventies song is… (Drum roll): Donny Osmond and The Twelfth of Never. Sorry Donny.”
That rundown hadn’t been a definitive Top Ten. If he’d thought about it long enough, he’d have been able to come up with worse offenders than those. Still, the pastiche had filled a bit of time.
More people started to filter in through the lobby and hang around the lounge. Some just went straight down to the bathrooms or dorms. No doubt they had headed out early and decided to come back to the hostel for a bit of recuperation. The people Jack noticed seemed mainly male, and all in their late teens and early twenties. He checked his phone. It was getting on for six. Zoe might be asleep, or she may be putting on her glad-rags ahead of a night out on the town with Jack.
Perhaps he should nip out and grab a sandwich somewhere. If he got hungry later, it would be difficult to refuse food. No, he might miss her if he nipped out. She wouldn’t wait around. But that was exactly what he was doing. Hey, it wasn’t as though he’d made a play for Zoe. He’d invited her out for a drink, not a romantic meal. Just two strangers staying in the same hostel, going out for a cheeky drink.
He shut down the netbook, took it back to his room, and then quickly returned to the lounge. He checked the time on his phone. Six. She wasn’t coming out. He thought that she’d been interested in going out for a drink, but in hindsight, she’d probably just been humouring him. Girls did it all the time. Politeness often masked the ugly truth. Instead of saying “Sod off you repulsive ogre!” when you asked them out, they’d say “Oh, I’m sorry, but I’m busy that day.” It would soon transpire that they happened to busy every day that you suggested.
Jack resigned himself to spending the evening alone. He would need to keep checking his email anyway, for correspondence from Quint. His back creaked as he elevated himself out of the lounge chair (another sign of middle age, he thought). Hang about! There! Walking down the corridor. She’d changed into a stylish pink top and had a white handbag draped across one shoulder. Her shoes seemed different too, not high heels, but a bit more glam than what she’d worn earlier. She’d done something different with her hair as well.
“Hey, you look great,” Jack said.
“Thank you.” Zoe flashed her pearly whites at him. “What you been up to?”
Jack stood there, incredulous that she’d turned up; to meet him he hoped and not someone else. “Oh I’ve just been surfing the web,” he said. “I’ve just put my netbook on charge. Did you manage to get some kip?”
“Kip?” she looked at him blankly.
“Sorry, sleep.”
She laughed. “Oh right. You Brits are so crazy. Yeah, I managed some kip.” She made a big deal of emphasising the word. “So…what do you wanna do? I’m quite hungry, so I wouldn’t mind grabbing a bite to eat.”
“I’ve already eaten,” he lied, “but I’m happy to watch you eat.”
“Cool. Let’s go then,” she said.
Chapter Nine:
Jack and Zoe strolled down the street towards the Coliseum. The sun had gone in for the day and the air felt heavy, as though rain might be imminent. Around them, the locals bustled back to their boltholes after a hard day’s work. Businessmen talked into their mobile phones as they swaggered home to their wives or mistresses. A hot meal - or better awaiting them.
“Looks like rain,” Jack said, “do you have a brolly?”
Zoe shot him that blank look again.
“An umbrella,” he said to her. He started to laugh.
She smiled. “No. I don’t have a brolly, old chap.” Her mock English accent tickled Jack, who laughed some more.
“You think I could pass for a Brit?” she asked him with a smile.
“No, but maybe a Canadian!”
“How rude!” She pulled a pseudo scowl.
Jack felt tempted to put his arm around her. Definitely not in the etiquette guide, though. Perhaps on the way back, if the night went smoothly. Best not to get ahead of himself.
“So…you haven’t seen the Coliseum yet?” she asked as they walked past a series of bars and cafes.
“Nope, you don’t mind if we take a quick butchers at it do you?”
“Butchers? Is that look?”
“Sure is, sister.”
“No, I don’t mind at all. It’s really beautiful at night when it’s all lit up. The lights may be on now actually. It’s only down the road here,” she said.
“Oh yeah, I think I can see it straight ahead,” said Jack. “Listen, you’ll have to teach me some unique American words. So far this evening I’ve given you kip, brolly and butchers.”
“Hey, I knew butchers! It’s true that our two nations are divided by a common language.”
Jack smiled. He was definitely falling for her.
The lit up coliseum came into view and Jack and Zoe stopped in their tracks to take in its splendour. “Impressive!” Jack said. His Darth Vader impression. Not that anybody ever noticed.
“I went inside it yesterday,” said Zoe. “It’s really interesting. You can’t move for tourists though, during the day.”
They walked on. Jack observed several groups of tourists milled around the dimly lit edifice. He watched a group of Orientals as they took their positions and held their cheesy poses as the photographer shuffled about, trying to g
et the optimum angle on the shot.
“Would you like me to take a photo of you in front of it?” Zoe asked.
Jack shot her a vacant look as they crossed the busy road. He’d sold his camera on eBay before setting off for his Suicide Vacation. After all, why bother taking pictures if you intend to kill yourself? “Damn,” he said. “I left it behind in my room. I have a camera on my phone though. Here you go.” He passed her his Nokia. “The button at the bottom right turns on the camera.”
Zoe fiddled with it for a few moments. “Ok, got it. I think we’ll need the flash, is it automatic?”
“Yep, just click and go.” Jack moved himself into position in front of the Coliseum. The soft pink lights cast a shadow as the Roman night threatened to fall.
